


Heliotrope

by nutrig



Category: A Requiem Of Roses, AROR
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutrig/pseuds/nutrig
Summary: A ghost. A manor. And you.
Relationships: Samuel Ashford/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	Heliotrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dem0n1x3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dem0n1x3/gifts).



> Happy 20th birthday, Haddie. I hope you enjoy :)

You walk through the darkened halls, a torch in your shaking hand. Dust had collected on the furniture, covered under white sheets.

Legend has it, there was someone here. A guardian of the abandoned estate. A man with tendrils of shadow and a hollow look in his eyes. You should have known better than to go looking for him. Well, you should have known better than to do a lot of things you’ve done.

He is perched on an armchair in front of an empty fireplace, in a room larger than all the others. The wood in the hearth had long turned to ashes and the ashes to dust. You pause, as you stand behind him.

“Ashford?” you manage, your voice smaller than you had intended it to be. “This is your estate?”

There is no reply. Not even a shuffle of fabrics. You begin to approach the darker figure, your brows furrowed and your chest pounding with nerves. This was what you wanted, to meet the legend of the abandoned manor, and yet…

The infamous Samuel Ashford had been reduced to nothing but a man with dark rings under his eyes. His skin was as pale as Pluto’s himself, and his hair combed and arranged, picture-perfect around his face. He doesn’t look at you – he doesn’t move at all. His pupils fix on the fireplace in front of him. He looks… ashen.

“Samuel Ashford, right?” you say, moving in front of the fireplace. You lower yourself to get a better look at him. “Are you deaf or blind?”

“Hello?” he finally says. But… it’s not at you. He looks around, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes. Pupils of stars. “Who lurks here?”

“Deaf and blind?” you mumble. You reach to tap the man on his shoulder, but as your finger approaches his shirt, it drifts right through. Samuel hisses, his hand grasping his shoulder as he stands up, leaving the seat.

“Alive,” he mumbles. “Begone from here, mortal. Do not approach me again.”

You take a step back, but… there was more you needed to know.

You spend the next day watching him from a distance. He knows you’re there – he makes a point to avoid you as much as he can, but he can only do so much, being unable to see or hear you. After the first night, you find food in the cabinets. You clear them out and stock them anew. On the second day, you lift the sheets from the living room and scrub the floors until your knuckles were white. You spend the nights in your car and return in the mornings.

On the third morning, he stands on a balcony, and you stand by his side. You can see the sunlight shine through him. He was barely a man anymore. A spectre, a mere shadow of what he might have been in life.

He can feel you watching him. Neither of you has spoken for the past three days… but the doctor breaks the silence first.

“Why are you still here?” he says. “I owe you nothing. I do not know who you are.”

You don’t know what to say, or how to say it in a way he will understand.

“Do you think you can assist my singularity?” Sam manages. He scoffs. “Cooking. Cleaning. Acting as if any of this means anything. I cannot see you, nor speak to you, therefore your presence is unnecessary.”

You shrug. “You like it, though, don’t you?” You lean forward, looking out to the sunset.

A moment of silence passes.

And then, three months of silence pass.

You’re still there. Why, you don’t know. But does it really matter? You spend your days watching him. His hair tucked behind his ear. His hands as they write in his script – a script you’ve never even seen before. Sometimes, he looks right through you. Sometimes… your chest feels tight. You speak to him about your home, about your past. He doesn’t hear. It’s okay. Because it feels like he’s listening. He leans into your presence. He walks through you once, and then spends half an hour complaining about the rush of warmth he felt, and how needless it was that you were still there. He was right. It was needless.

You sleep in a bedroom adjacent to his, now. He told you to. He said, “If you keep sleeping in that vehicle, you’ll decline into a state of pneumonic illness.” Then he led you to your new room.

You try writing words to him, but he doesn’t know the language. He never replies to the messages.

And every day, he seems further away from you. Sometimes, Samuel will look directly at you, as if he really does see you, and then he will turn his head and walk away. He will walk, and walk, and walk until even he does not know how many steps he has taken. You don’t know why. You don’t even know why you care.

But you do know one thing.

He is beautiful.

And one morning, you wake. The sun glows on the inside of your eyelids. You don’t know how long it’s been since you moved here. Since you fell in love with the ghost of the manor.

You only know one thing, a feeling in your bones. It has never been so strong before, and it is undeniable.

It is time you leave the mansion.

You find a flower in the garden. A sweet pea. You pick one, and you bring it to him. He is in his armchair, writing again. Before you can see, the book is shut. He looks up.

He looks at you.

He blinks.

You blink.

And then he stands. Ashford approaches you, eyeing you up and down.

“You can see me?”

“It is the winter solstice. The only day I can,” he says.

“You can hear me, too.” Your body trembles as the intensity of his gaze harshens. He is close to you, too close, and you cannot think. Your throat closes up, you can’t even manage to blink in fear it would all go away.

“What is your name?” Sam asks. You tell him.

“I am leaving,” you say. “I wanted to tell you, so…” you hold up the flower. “Thank you for having me.”

Sam’s gaze falls upon the flower and then looks back at you. “Why?”

Your throat closes up.

A hand makes it’s way to your hair. And you can feel him… his breath on you, his skin on your skin. “I think you’ve fallen in love with me.”

Your breath hitches. “Why would you think that? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you,” he says. He leans forward, his breath hot on your skin. Your throat is dry. You think you know what’s coming but… but all you feel is his breath. He pulls back, and his eyes soften. “If you must leave, you must leave. But, even after a hundred years, I'll be waiting here for you to return home to me.”

His thumb traces a line under your eye.

You don’t want to leave.

You never want to leave again.

“I will come back.” You find yourself speaking before you think. “Believe me.”

You have never seen a smile so miserable.


End file.
